


it's a love story after all

by punkpadfoot



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpadfoot/pseuds/punkpadfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know why he does it, really, other than the fact that it’s September and the sun isn’t beating down so hot and he has an extra hundred in his pocket that he won off a scratch-off ticket, and he can’t stop thinking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a love story after all

“Do I want – what the fuck? _No_.” 

It is seven-thirty in the morning and suddenly it is even hotter in the kitchen than it was before, and that was saying a lot, considering it’s the middle of August and they don’t have air conditioning. Around two a.m. they’d given up sleeping in bed, growing progressively more irritated every time one would bump the other with a sweaty limb until Ian had ground out a _god fucking dammit_ and they’d shoved each other through the dark bedroom to the bathroom, had a cold shower, and dragged their pillows and fans into the living room. Sprawling out on the hardwood floor had hardly been any better, but at least it gave them some _space_ in which to be miserably hot in. As a result, though, neither Mickey nor Ian were in the best of moods this morning, so Ian’s question – well, it caught him off guard.

And now Ian’s sitting there at the kitchen table, a spoonful of Lucky Charms dangling halfway to his mouth, looking like someone kicked his dog. Mickey didn’t get how someone who is nearly thirty years old could still pull off that broken-hearted, doe-eyed teenage girl look like a pro. He didn’t understand how someone who _is_ thirty years old could still be so damn affected by it.

“No,” Ian echoes him, setting his spoon down. “No?” 

Mickey holds back a sigh, swipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and turns back to the toast he’d been in the middle of buttering. Finishes it, pours himself a cup of coffee, pauses (rolls his eyes at himself), pours one for Ian too. 

“S’what I said, tough guy,” Mickey says, finally, attempting to sound a bit less abrasive. The look on Ian’s face doesn’t change so he’s not sure it works. “No.” He sets the cup down in front of Ian but instead of sitting goes back to the counter, leans against it and takes a bite of his toast. 

“Well – Jesus, Mick, can I ask _why_?” 

“Been there, done that,” Mickey says with a shrug, mouth full. 

“When you were a teenager!” Ian says, louder now, and Mickey thinks _ah, there it is_ , because the kicked puppy look always precedes the outburst. Ian just needs time to build it up, that’s all. “To someone you didn’t even – ”

“Yeah, and you know what? I think the same thing now that I told you then,” Mickey cuts him off. He doesn’t want this to escalate but it’s too late and it’s too hot and he does not want to be having this conversation, but here they are. “It’s a fucking piece of paper, Ian. Didn’t do shit for my parents, didn’t do shit for yours, sure as _hell_ didn’t do shit for me because I’m sittin’ here in fucking Humboldt Park playing house with you instead of Svetlana on the South Side.” For _years_ , he wants to add. He’s been playing house with Ian for _years_ now, plus more than he’s already counting if you factor in all the time they traded off between staying at his house or Ian’s, depending on where there was room or who was around.

“Yeah, okay, let’s just use the most dysfunctional marriages you can think of as a reason not to get married, that’s reasonable enough,” Ian says, as if it’s not reasonable – which, by the way, Mickey thinks it is.

“Jesus, you are so dramatic,” Mickey says, and takes a sip of his coffee. Neither of them are speaking but they’re both staring at each other, somewhat of a standoff. Mickey’s still braced for more, because he knows Ian isn’t done. He can tell by the way his shoulders are still too tense, his leg bouncing; he can practically _see_ him arranging and rearranging words in his head.

But, all Ian says is “Fine." 

“Fine,” Mickey agrees, a little abruptly, a little too soon, because Ian tacks on a request to his question before Mickey even finishes.

“Would you wear a ring anyways? Even if we don’t get married?”

Mickey stares, for a moment, eyebrows furrowing together, wants to answer this calmly but can’t help but sound incredulous when he says, “What? _Why_?”

“I don’t know, Mick! Because it means something to me, maybe? Because I like the idea of other people seeing that we’re in a committed relationship, unless you’re trying to pick someone up on the side, then by all means – ”

Mickey let’s out a loud laugh, shakes his head, and says, “Okay, fuck you for saying that for one, and two, if they’re anything like you they’d probably be _more_ into me.” 

“You’re such a prick, I swear to god I can’t stand you sometimes.” 

“Besides, it’s kinda _stupid_ , Ian – ” 

“Oh, so now we’re _stupid_.” 

“Oh my god, you are so fucking impossible right now.” 

His toast is cold and Ian’s cereals is probably a soggy mush and he needs to get his ass into gear this morning if he doesn’t want to be late for work, and it’s so _hot_ in this stupid kitchen. They wouldn’t be half-fighting right now if it weren’t so hot, he’s sure. He knows it’s not a real fight, because they’ve both been sort of smiling incredulously the whole time and no one’s really said anything awful. It’s just the heat and the fact that they slept on the hard floor and all that bullshit. And Ian’s stupid fuckin’ questions, but still. Who the fuck asks someone to marry them with a spoonful of Lucky Charms in their mouth anyways?

“All right, grumpy face,” Mickey says, after a moment, “I gotta get ready for work. We gonna drop this or are you gonna be mad at me later, too?”

It’s a legitimate question, and Ian knows if he says that he’s gonna be mad at Mickey later, then they’ll actually talk about it later, but after a moment Ian just shrugs, sighs, “I am kind of grumpy, huh?” And then, “I’m not gonna be mad later.” 

Mickey kisses him on the mouth as he passes, quick and short, thumb pressing against Ian’s jaw, and again when he leaves, twice for good measure.

- 

True to his word, Ian isn’t mad later in the evening when they’re both home from work. Mickey’s waiting for it anyways, feeling like at any moment the topic is going to resurface, that he’s going to look at Mickey with those dopey sweet eyes and say some shit that makes Mickey feel bad about not wanting to wear a stupid ring, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything when they camp out on the living room floor, or when he presses a sweaty kiss to Mickey’s temple the next morning, or when they finally fuck again two days later because it rained and the cool breeze that makes its way through their open windows means they can stand to be touching for more than two seconds without getting irrationally irritated at one another. And it’s not passive aggressively not saying anything, what Ian’s doing. He isn’t giving Mickey strange looks or sighing heavily or being short with him. He isn’t doing any of that shit that they would do when they were younger.

Ian dropped it, so Mickey can’t help but wonder why the fuck he can’t stop thinking about it.

-

He doesn’t know why he does it, really, other than the fact that it’s September and the sun isn’t beating down so hot and he has an extra hundred in his pocket that he won off a scratch-off ticket, and he can’t stop thinking about it.

So, he does it.

-

The funny thing about it is that it isn’t until two weeks later, mid-fuck, that Ian even notices. 

Mickey has Ian pushed back on the bed, hands splayed against Ian’s chest for leverage as he lifts himself up and brings himself back down, grinning like the cat that got the cream each time he pulls a groan out of Ian. He mimics each one mockingly – a little louder, a little more obscene each time, absolutely ridiculous sounds that may or may not have been borrowed from porn until they’re both catching their breaths after peals of laughter, smiling fondly at each other.

And then Mickey will move again and the cycle repeats – at this rate, they’ll finish sometime next week, but that light feeling in his chest Mickey gets from seeing Ian panting through his smile is probably worth it. 

But that’s when it happens. Mickey’s fingers press hard into Ian’s chest, shallow half-moons left behind from the nubs of his nails, and he rolls his hips once more, seeing stars himself for a moment so he almost misses his cue.

“Oh, fuck,” Ian says, and then, “wait – what the fuck’s that?”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Mickey repeats, voice low, trying to hold back a grin by biting his lower lip. He pushes harder against Ian as he lifts himself up and then slowly sinks back down, smirking. “That’s your dick in my ass, Firecrotch – how’s it feel?”

“Not that,” Ian says, trying to sit up on his elbows but Mickey moves a hand to his shoulder to push him back, cocking his head to the side. “ _That_.”

Ian grabs Mickey’s hand. Traces a finger over the back band circling his ring finger, thin and still slightly scabbed, close enough to the faded U of the UP across his knuckles that they’re nearly touching.

Mickey pauses and, for a moment, watches as Ian looks at his fingers, watches his expression soften from amusement to something more tender –

Mickey twists their fingers together for a moment before pulling Ian’s hand towards himself and wrapping it around his dick.

“Not _that_ ,” he echoes, and Ian let’s out an undignified snort at Mickey’s tone. “ _That_.”

Ian, through his laughter, says, “Okay, okay,” and obliges him.

-

After, their faces flushed, Mickey is laying back in bed with a lit cigarette when Ian asks, “Can I see it?”

Mickey looks at him for a long moment. Ian’s freckles haven’t faded from the summer yet, and his eyes are bright, a soft smile slowly creeping across his face. Mickey wants to call him a douchebag and roll over and go to sleep, because sometimes he still can’t take it when Ian looks at him like that, like Mickey means the world to him or something outrageous like that.

He doesn’t do that, though. He switches his cigarette from one hand to the other, holds out his hand as if he’s impatient to get this over with. Ian doesn’t mind, takes it between his own and runs a finger around the black band again as if expecting to be able to rub it off. When it doesn’t, he looks back up to Mickey from his pillow, and says, with nearly accusing delight, “That’s a _ring_ , Mick.”

“It’s a tattoo, asshole,” Mickey shoots back defensively, but doesn’t pull away when Ian laces their fingers together.

“It’s a tattoo of a ring,” Ian says, and he’s smiling so hard the Mickey is surprised he can even get the words out.

Something in his chest aches, so he takes another drag off his cigarette and snuffs it out, half-finished, in the ashtray on their nightstand. He doesn’t untangle their fingers as he lays down next to Ian, sharing the same pillow.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, squeezing Ian’s hand hard. “Guess so.”

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this because tessa delgay finally posted hockey au sooo its kinda for her i guess. title from you are jeff by richard siken.


End file.
